


Icon

by Rantipo1e



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Conflicted Snape, Fix-It, Flower Bomb, Half-Blood Prince, Happy Ending, Independent Harry, M/M, Non-consensual Love, Underage -- but not a human being, Vaguely religious ritual but no actual religion, Wood-Carving, but Harry fixes that, just really old-school magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-01-06 22:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12220218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rantipo1e/pseuds/Rantipo1e
Summary: "There were flowers all around him, colors that swam before his eyes, and sweetness piled on sweetness until he felt that he might drown."To protect Harry, Snape casts an ancient, primeval spell. It pays off after the final battle, and Snape beats the Dark Lord at his own game. But the spell taps into Snape's deepest emotions - it forces Harry to love him. Three times, he tries to give Harry a choice, but he has no defense against it.He sees Harry as a child, but Harry is not a child, and Harry saves him :)ETA: new ending





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [recyclingisimportant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/recyclingisimportant/gifts), [Because I think that name is awesome](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Because+I+think+that+name+is+awesome).



 

 

 

His first memory was of incense, a smoke that tingled inside his nose, the most powerful scent he had ever smelled, spicy, lovely; it made his head spin. And he was convinced that he had gone to heaven, because he could not believe that such a thing existed in the ordinary world.

He felt fingers inside his chest, sliding into him gently.

And he recognized each thing they carried as soon as it entered him, recognized each thing as his own; his fingernails, his tears, a scrap of cloth impregnated with his semen, a few drops of his blood, relics of himself. He knew who he was, because he could feel them there, inside the hollow in his chest where a real boy's heart would be.

And he knew then that he was not a real boy, that his body was made of wood and his eyes were made of glass. But his eyelashes and hair were real; he could feel them. They were real, and they were his own -- he recognized them the way he recognized the things inside his chest.

And he recognized the man in front of him, someone he felt he should know, speaking words he didn't understand. But the voice made something in his chest tighten around those fingers, made him wish above all other things that he were a real boy.

~

There were flowers all around him, colors that swam before his eyes and sweetness piled on sweetness until he felt that he might drown. But there was also the warm soft scent of beeswax and the light of a hundred candles.

And there was a sudden pain in his forehead that deepened into pure agony, the knife slowly, carefully carving a zig-zag line, first in one direction, then the other, digging into the wood of his brow. His senses expanded to encompass this pain as it became his whole existence. But he refused to make a noise. Indeed, he could not make a noise because he was made of wood, but he was set against it because of something he could feel in that place inside his chest. He could feel how this man loved him; he knew it the same way he recognized himself.

Then it stopped, and he could see again, the man still holding the knife but speaking soft words to him, reassuring. And he wanted them never to stop, because the pain was even fiercer now, but the words were sweet, sweeter even than the smell of the flowers rising all around him. And he let himself fall into them, let them bear him away from the pain.

But all at once he felt blood welling up, dripping down around his eyebrows, falling onto his cheeks like tears, like soft rain on the dry earth of his wooden flesh. And the face before him filled with chagrin and astonished awe, one fingertip reaching out to touch his cheek. He felt it there for a moment, gentle, sweet like the scent of the flowers that made him dizzy, the man's eyes dark and brilliant in the candlelight. Then the finger left him; and now he would have made a sound if he could, because of the pain of loneliness. 

Very slowly, the finger moved to the man's mouth. The dark eyes never left his face.

~

His sight was growing more clear, and he could see the room around him; dark stone, smelling slightly of chill and damp, the vaulted ceiling curving away above him in the light of the candles. And there were rows of candles, banks of them in shining gilded stands, so many that he felt warm.

He could hear water trickling like a string of silver bells into the bowl. He could smell the scent of roses.

And then the man he loved was before him again, and he could feel a wet cloth moving over him, and the warmth of the hand inside it, bringing feeling into his skin, bringing pink into his cheeks, his lips. The cloth swept down his arms, not rough but gentle, careful. It warmed his fingers and the points of his elbows. He heard it dip into the bowl and smelled the scent of roses again as it brought heat into his nipples, his prick, and even there between his legs. It glided under his buttocks, around his knees, between his toes. When it left him, he knew that he was glowing.

"Beautiful," said the man he loved; and he could feel himself blush under the gaze that skimmed his body.

A quiet rustle echoed against the walls, the bowl and the cloth being put away, the man who loved him vanishing from his sight, and he wanted to sigh, though he could not make a noise.

But suddenly that hand was touching him again, oh, completely bare this time, the dark eyes following it as it slid around his side, under his arm where it would not have fit a moment before, but it was so warm, and slick with the finest oil, and he could feel the perfume of it rising into him. Careful and thorough, both hands anointed each of his arms, his legs, his neck, his face, even sliding into his mouth, which opened for them now just slightly. He was touched everywhere by the hands that had made him, the hands that had created him, that owned him truly and forever.

And then again, they stroked warm and smooth over his limbs, softening his flesh until his elbows moved, and his fingers. They roamed over his back and his belly, softening him further, and even slid between his legs, because his legs would move slightly now, one hand holding him upright while the fingers of the other slid over him, and oh, inside him. 

But he could see only the dark eyes that were watching his face, watching the change that came over it as one finger stroked into him again, very slowly, so warm, hot inside him and his flesh warming around it, the heat rising into his chest and his face with the scent of the flowers and the oil and the candles. He felt as if his eyelids were falling slightly closed, his lips falling apart slightly in pleasure, their corners turning up in a hint of a smile. But he could do nothing of his own because he had no will, could only gaze into the eyes before him and hope that Severus could see his expression.

Severus. 

Yes, Severus could see it, because the touch inside him drew away, but the hand on his shoulder reached toward his mouth, just touching it. The dark brilliant eyes marveled. And that place inside his chest, the place that was the heart of him, was filled with joy.

~

He was being clothed, slowly, the shirt pulling snug across his chest as a button was fastened, then another, and another; snug around his neck as his tie was tightened, the collar flipping up, then down again in the old familiar motion. And he recognized the clothes, knew these garments were his by their smell. They smelled like him.

One of his feet was lifted, his leg strangely supple now with the constant touching of those hands. First his underpants, then his trousers, then his socks and shoes slid onto his legs, and he realized what that touch was; not just gentle, not just tender - it was reverent. He could feel the devotion in it as those fingers stroked his face, the corners of his lips, that secret smile they had created.

But he had no memory of his earlier life, no knowledge of anything outside Severus, who was backing away, staring at him, face desperate with an emotion he could not understand. 

Severus voice was a whisper. "I'm sorry; sorry. I'm sorry."

Severus was on the far side of the chamber now, his voice magnified by the echo and leaving him, Harry could feel it, because he knew now who he was, he knew his own name, just as he knew that he would die if Severus left him. It was simple fact. He knew that he would die, that he would become cold again without the hands that had touched him, that he would cease to feel and know without that gaze on him, the voice that had spoken to him, that he would lose all these things. But he looked as long as he could, his eyes stinging.

He was surprised by the first drop that slipped down his cheek. But it was enough, because Severus was coming back to him, slowly, as if drawn by a fisherman's hook, reaching out his finger and touching the tear, bringing it back to his lips to taste just as before, so that Harry was comforted by the familiarity of it.

But then there was a hand under his chin, and those lips were touching his opened mouth, pressing against his own now to open them wider, a tongue slipping inside him and arms winding around him, holding him tight as he gasped his first breath, his eyes wide.

And somehow, of his own will, he could raise his hand, breathing into Severus' mouth and feeling the breath come back into him, could raise his hand until it touched the side of Severus face, warm against his fingers, and his fingers warm themselves; a miracle.

~

Harry woke to find himself in the Hospital Wing, with the worried face of Madam Pomfrey above him.

And there were other faces, voices, all around him, so many, all calling him softly, looking to him for help, wanting so many things; looking at him as if he were not a boy, but a man. And he remembered what they wanted, remembered what he wanted, remembered that he had his own dreams.

He started to say something.

But he smelled incense and rose-water and the warm scent of beeswax.

He looked at Madam Pomfrey, but he felt gentle hands seeking inside his clothing, slipping off his pants and trousers together, quick and sure, moving his limbs, opening him.

He tried again to speak, but he heard a voice murmuring endearments that made him blush and close his eyes; "So soft, so ready for me." It was the voice that wanted nothing more than to possess him. And all at once there was a shock of pain inside him that filled his belly and made his legs spasm, made his eyes open wide, brought him home, with his arms tightening around Severus' neck, clinging and begging again with his eyes for him to make the pain go away.

And Severus knew exactly what he needed, spoke to him just as he had before, the sound of his voice against Harry's cheek, against his lips, but never stopping, until he was floating, because now he could understand the words: "Mine; you are mine; you belong to me."

Then when he was completely languid again, he felt Severus grasp his thighs and drive deeply into him, heard something fall to the floor, smelled the spilled wax and incense all around him, felt the flowers crushed under him on the linen of the altar cloth. He was back in that dark vaulted room again with the candles flickering; a boy, a boy preserved forever, never to grow old, never to know anything but this possession, to know only what Severus wanted him to know, the love that Severus had put inside his heart. He could feel it there, more real than anything, and beating like Severus' cock inside him, beating with life of a different kind.

But as he fell open and craving, he was completely silent, because the substance of him was still wooden. Though he loved purely, he had no voice, and no way to show it but this: to let himself be worshipped and be the slave of his worshipper, as all deities are.

And he clung tightly, like a child, because he knew that this was what he wanted, that this was real, and everything else was illusion. 

~

Harry woke. The infirmary was full of the small noises of other people sleeping. There was a candle lit. And he felt fine. 

His chest was warm under his hand, moving with his breath. He was flesh, not wood. His fingers moved however he wanted them to. There was no altar, no incense - whatever it had been, it was over, and he felt fine. He knew he didn't belong here. 

There was something tugging at his heart.

He turned his head one way, then the other. Quietly, he rolled over onto his stomach and reached under the mattress, fingers searching. Yes - he found it. He dug into the cloth, tugged, pulled it out and over himself. Careful not to make a noise, he sat up. He made his way between the rows of beds and to the door, his feet bare, silent.

In the Entrance Hall, he took the door to the left of the marble staircase, opened it quickly, spun around it and pulled it shut with a little click. Then he went down the stairs into the dark, confident because he had walked these corridors before. He was not a child any more. 

He turned a corner into deeper darkness and looked back. There was a dead end behind him, where he had come through just a moment ago. And there was a new doorway off to the left. The corridors were moving again. He grinned from within the invisibility of the cloak, and moved forward again, quick and quiet; because he knew that no one else would ever be able to find it. Only he could. He would be able to find it no matter how the corridors rearranged themselves. He could feel it tugging at his heart.

He walked until he had no idea where he was, until he gave up trying to tell where he was going, until he was following only his internal sense of direction, completely blind. And then he found the door. It opened easily before his hand. 

And his breathing quickened, because this was it: quiet, echoing, a shrine filled with flowers. Banks of candles flickered all around him.

And he was looking right into the eyes of a life-sized doll - a shy, perfect child with feathery eyelashes and soft, soft skin and the sweetest expression. He loved it immediately.

But it was himself. He recognized it. It had his hair and his eyes and a jagged mark on its forehead, still fresh. And the feeling was coming from it; he wanted to touch it, because this was what tugged at his heart. In the flickering light of the candles, it almost seemed to breathe. He moved slowly to one side of the door, unable to look away.

Its eyes followed him.

And he felt his back hit the wall, his head light and his heart jerking in his chest. The thing was looking back at him and he was riding a wave of panic, looking into his own eyes; unnatural. His heart pounded, the face before him filling with awe and wonder. The thing was sweet. It was lovely; someone had made it that way. 

He clutched his cloak tighter. But the eyes still saw him.

And he had done this himself, he had made them see simply by coming here. He felt the strength leaving his body and going into this thing, and he knew that he had been an utter fool, that he had walked into a trap that could kill him, that because he loved the thing, he would stay here; that he would sink against this wall and shrink and fade and waste away until there was nothing left of him at all.

He could feel the wooden body now, full of sorrow and joy. The eyes that looked into his were sad and kind and loving, the face sweet because the thing's heart was made with nothing but tenderness. He felt his mouth fall open as if to say something, but it was the doll's mouth, and it could not speak. He felt its desperate affection for him, its desire to help him as it stole his soul.

And then he felt that mouth curve into the slightest smile, because Severus was here, dark eyes looking into his own, and whispering to him, fingers feathering over his cheek, spidery fingers crawling over his neck, he could see them. They spread over his chest, bony and thin, one of them bending to pinch; a hard bite that made heat rush to follow it.

He could see the long greasy hair that fell across his cheek, could feel it tickle against his neck, feel his vision blurring now as breath whispered over his lips and then, yes, into his mouth, lips warm against his own, breath making his chest rise, filling him with helpless devotion.

And he could see a spidery hand moving over his shirt, spreading over the front of his trousers; Snape had stolen his clothes from somewhere; those were his clothes, his, the cloth wrinkling between two fingers that slid slowly downwards on either side of his prick, that reached underneath, delicate, making heat rush into it, making his knees collapse, the other hand holding him effortlessly. He could still see those fingers on him, the dark oily hair falling in front of the face that bent over him, could see himself looking up into it. And he could see nothing but the man he adored, knew without doubt that this man loved him, that this man was vicious; fingers crawling over his trousers, one of them wrinkling the fabric along his prick, knuckle bending gently. He fell back into the arm that held him, seeing only the dark beautiful eyes now, letting his soul move completely into those eyes and those hands. 

He heard himself make a sound.

Without warning, the hands were gone and he could stand, was standing away from the wall - his feet braced, his cock hard, his mouth open to wail or scream, his hands shaking. Because that blind love was gone, that moment of bliss, what he thought he had seen, what he had been so sure of. He ached inside.

And Snape was looking at him. Snape all the way across the room; bony, ugly, the hands that had touched him creeping into the darkness of his sleeves. And it was completely different now, because they were of a height. They were eye to eye.

His mouth was open, but he couldn't speak because he couldn't think.

He realized that he was not even holding his wand.

~

Harry saw his true self for the first time; he saw his own face. It was like looking in a mirror. But the face he saw was filled with loathing. And he knew that he was only a reflection, a poor simulacrum, a thing of wood and paint and scraps.

Severus had turned away from him, was stepping away from him, because this was the one that Severus truly loved; this one, and not himself at all. This was a young man, not a child. He had seen his own small hands and they were nothing that this vibrant, capable being would possess.

The young man did not pull his cloak back together. He only turned, and left the doorway empty behind him, his footsteps fading into silence. And Severus was still, his back turned, a featureless black statue between him and the empty doorway. He felt his throat work, but he kept his eyes open wide and clear and did not make a sound, indeed, he could not. Severus did not move, did not look at him. 

But finally, he spoke.

"Nox."

All the candles went out in a rush of darkness. And Severus was leaving him, was outside already, his hands were on the doors. But he was waiting, waiting for something, a dark silhouette against the light of the corridor. Harry wondered if Severus could see anything of his face. And he knew that this moment would end - but it seemed stretched.

There was nothing he could do; Severus would go soon. And he felt strangely peaceful. He felt the corners of his mouth turn up in a tiny smile, though his face was wet, and it didn't really matter whether Severus could see it - because he had stopped for a moment.

Then the doors shut with a deep and final sound and he was alone in complete darkness.

There was no light. There were no words, not even a whisper. 

There was the scent of the flowers, but eventually, it faded.

Time passed, but soon there was no sense of time, either.

He felt himself slowly dying, but there was no pain, only the loss of sensation. He realized that he could not feel his feet or hands. He was not sure whether he would fall, because he no longer had any sense of balance. He was drifting in nothingness, and he dreamed - he dreamed of his other self.

And in his dreams he was much more alive than he had ever been.

~

Harry woke. This time, he had no idea where he was. 

It was dark and quiet, so quiet that he could feel the silence vibrating in his ears. He blinked, fighting to come out of his stupor, trying to clear his eyes. Nothing happened.

For an infinite, timeless moment he struggled, trying to find his balance in the darkness; to feel his limbs. And then he realized that he felt absolutely no pain. He had no idea how much time had passed; he had no memory of what had happened; he only knew that he had been used to desperate effort. He was used to ignoring pain - but now it had stopped. His body was strange to him.

He was dead.

He was suddenly sure of it. He felt fear filling him in a cold rush, and he looked but he could see nothing, perhaps because there was nothing for him to see; there was nothing, no light, anywhere. He forced his head to turn, searching, straining his eyes, wishing frantically, with all his heart; wishing only for a light.

And the candles lit themselves in a wave spreading out around him, first a few springing into life near his feet, and then more and more in a great rush until the room was filled with light.

He knew immediately where he was. He should have known it before. He should have known all along that he was coming back here, that he could not avoid it. It was the place that he had seen only once but visited again and again in his dreams, the heated, drugging secret that sprang into his mind at odd moments during the day, that he returned to when he closed his eyes. Now it was real. He blushed.

But the candles welcomed him in their hundreds, banks of them next to the altar on each side. And dead flowers lay in drifts, covering everything like snow over a familiar landscape, making it strange. He wrinkled his forehead and patted his pockets for his wand.

He tried wishing them away.

Nothing happened.

He kicked some of them off the altar with his foot. Then he bent and picked up one edge of the altar cloth, stepped around it, raised it higher, watched flowers rain to the floor, heard heavier things fall with a clatter. When it was empty, he shook it out and dropped it to the floor behind. He might have a use for it later.

He jumped down, landing on his hand and one knee. He looked around. He tried to move one of the candelabra. It was ridiculously heavy, and he was ridiculously small. But these things were his now and he could do as he wished with them.

He found and collected various interesting items: a censer, a knife, a bowl, an empty vial, the things that were used to make him. He rolled them in his hands; explored them with his fingers.

Then with his hands and his feet he raked all the flowers together, out from around the altar, out from among the candelabra on either side, until they were all piled into one large drift at the side of the room. He jumped into them. He got up, laughing, raked them together and jumped into them again; he had never gotten to do this as a child. And then he lay still, moving his arms, felt them soft and dry and rustling under him. This room was like his closet, because he had it all to himself - he could really do anything he liked, for the first time in longer than he could remember.

He buried his face in the flowers and breathed. The faint smell of roses and incense was a surge of pure delight, fingers creeping over him again, over his chest, sliding along his prick. He jerked himself onto his back.

He looked up at the ceiling. At the center of the vault there was an X where the ribs came together; along each rib, the rows of stones arrowed toward each other like fish bones. He followed each line with his eyes. He did not think that name. But he still felt the overwhelming loneliness, the love planted in him by his maker. He was a creature made to love, and he knew exactly who he wanted. He tried not to think, tried not to feel, but he knew that he had failed, because he could feel Snape, because he had made Snape aware of him; and he thought No - _No_ \- but it would do no good. Now Snape knew he was here.

All around the room, the candles began to dim and go out, one by one.

Before he was ready, the door opened quietly, and shut again.

He let his head fall to the side.

Snape was staring at the empty altar, his head turning now, turning; Snape was looking right at him. He lay still.

Snape knelt.

Snape's hands were gentle on his face, behind his head, checking each arm and leg, but Snape's face was so strange. The hands moved efficiently, but the look on his face - Harry didn't know it at all. It was blank of its usual expression. He had never seen it this way. He just stared. He remembered how he hated Snape, but could no longer feel it.

And then Snape was looking directly into his eyes, just looking at him. So he smiled.

And he said, "You're probably wondering how I got down here, aren't you."

Snape froze. 


	2. Chapter 2

Harry knew immediately what he had done, that he had just spoken. He had changed everything. The air still held the echo of his voice.  
  
He sat up. He put his hand down among the flowers, put his foot under him, and stood. Snape didn't move. Snape's face was still blank; he didn't make a sound.  
  
Harry planted his feet. He felt his heart beat slowly; he felt the flowers around his ankles, all around him the quiet rustling and fluttering of the candles. Snape had dropped his wand; it was lying next to him on the floor.  
  
He realized that Snape was kneeling before him - _kneeling_.  
  
The candles flickered madly.  
  
He looked at Snape and felt a warmth spread through his whole body, the small room full of candles; his joints loosening, his body loosening with it, his legs, his feet on the floor. It was the great benevolence that Snape had planted inside him; he felt it fill the whole room. He remembered that this room was his; this place was his. He felt that tiny smile on his face again, just at the corners of his mouth.  
  
He felt quiet and wise. But Snape looked so tense. He knew that Snape was cruel, but he couldn't feel it. He felt only the warmth inside him; he had no fear.  
  
And he knew that he couldn’t read Snape’s mind, but he realized he didn’t have to. He knew exactly how Snape felt. He had seen it. He had seen everything.  
  
“I’m sorry,” said Snape.  
  
And he smiled, “You said that before.”  
  
Snape’s eyes were very dark. “You remember.”  
  
“Yes,” he said, watching the reaction, tipping his head. “Everything.”  
  
Snape’s face colored.  
  
He touched Snape’s chin, looking without thinking. Because it was obvious; he saw the reason behind what Snape had done. He said, “You wanted me to love you.”  
  
Snape’s face flushed, but he didn’t look away. He said, “Yes.”  
  
Harry reached out, slowly, took hold of Snape’s chin between his thumb and his finger, watching Snape’s eyes.  
  
“You made me love you,” he said, thinking aloud. “And then you couldn’t resist me.”  
  
Snape’s mouth opened. Snape was staring. Snape whispered, “Yes.”  
  
Harry felt his chest heat with what he saw, felt it pulling at his heart, felt the spell working on him. He let go of Snape. “I’m not like that any more.”  
  
And Snape's face was blank again. “No.”  
  
He stood still. In the silence, he felt his heart beat and watched Snape’s eyes. He heard Snape take a breath. He felt himself breathe.  
  
In the ranks of candelabra all around them, many of the candles had gone out, but now one of them relit. And now another.  
  
He shifted his weight; he stood back. Now he felt on a par with Snape. And he was looking Snape in the eye - but only because Snape was kneeling. Suddenly he knew what he wanted. He straightened his head.  
  
“Can you make me taller?” He could hear his own impatience.  
  
Snape blinked. He hadn’t moved. “Yes.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
Snape’s eyes moved over his face. Snape lifted one hand, hesitated. Snape reached up, slowly, toward his head.  
  
There was a dried flower stuck in his hair.  
  
Snape lifted it out, so gently he could barely feel it, looked down at it, looked back at him.  
  
The bridge of Snape's nose was fascinating when his head moved in the candlelight. Harry reached up to touch it, the steep curve of it, tender, sharp under his finger, watching Snape's eyes look at him.  
  
He moved his hand to tuck Snape’s hair behind his ear. It could do with a wash. He ran his fingers along the hairline, feeling the roots of the hairs against his fingertips.  
  
One of Snape's eyebrows was higher than the other. He ran his finger along it, too, and Snape's eyes fell partly closed. Snape’s eyelashes looked so soft. Very gently, he brushed the edges of them with the tip of his finger at the outside corner of Snape's eye. Snape's eyes flew open. He could feel himself smile.  
  
He touched Snape’s cheek. And because he was no longer guarding against it, the spell overwhelmed him. Warmth bloomed in his chest; he felt his heart expanding, felt a wave of tenderness through his whole body. He felt it and it was innocent. But he knew that. He knew that all the feelings inside him were innocent.  
  
So he let it move him, let it move his thumb gently over the curve of Snape’s cheek; to see what would happen. Just below the cheekbone, there was a dimple that fit his finger perfectly. Then his finger slid into the corner of Snape's mouth with a lovely pause, just touching the delicate lip. And the curve of Snape's lower lip was beautiful. He traced the edge of it, barely touching, let his finger rest just below it, still touching; his cheeks warm, the pulse in his chest, in his belly; his pulse was coursing through him, his hands, his legs, his face. He felt so alive.  
  
And in a rush, he saw what Snape had done, what Snape had accomplished; who else would have even tried it? The mark that Voldemort had made on him was gone, and he was free. Snape was brilliant.  
  
All the candles in the room flared into life.  
  
He looked into Snape’s eyes so that Snape could see the thought.  
  
But Snape was suddenly shocked, urgent, “It’s not real." His voice was ernest, “It’s the spell.” Snape grasped him by the shoulder. "It's not real."  
  
He looked at Snape, just looked, and felt the quiet come over him again, felt all the emotion leave him, so that he could see Snape clearly.  
  
But it was still obvious. Snape really was brilliant.  
  
And now Snape looked away, the tension in his arm easing for a moment.  
  
But Snape looked back at him, serious and undeterred. Snape swallowed; Snape was afraid of something. Snape looked so determined.  
  
Snape was trying to protect him from himself.  
  
He felt his mind go blank. He looked at Snape with complete dispassion, and let loose all the warmth inside him all at once. He felt it fill the room again, rushing into all the empty spaces, until he saw Snape’s face flush with it; he watched Snape’s jaw go slack. And in the midst of it, he let Snape see the calm that made him inaccessible, that put him out of reach, that Snape could do nothing to him now.  
  
Snape’s eyes never left him.  
  
He felt the corners of his mouth turn up a tiny bit. He let his weight shift back again. How could he stay angry when Snape looked at him like that? He hadn't even realized what what he was doing.

In the silence, it occurred to him that he could do whatever he wanted with Snape. Somehow, without him knowing it, their positions had been reversed. He could feel his power; it was a fact, like the stone under his feet.

It occurred to him that this was why he no longer hated Snape. He didn't have to.  

Snape hadn’t moved. Snape’s wand was still on the floor where he had dropped it, his hand still empty at his side. And even though Snape had gone completely limp, Snape hadn't let go of his shoulder.

Gently this time, he let loose his power again, just a little bit, watching Snape's face. And somehow he could feel the fine hairs on the back of Snape's neck. All at once, Snape shivered. He couldn't help but smile.

He could feel the flowers heaped up all around him, behind him, one of them tumbling down slowly. He could feel the shape of the room, the walls, the altar he had jumped down from, and in a rush beyond the walls he felt the shape of the tremendous building in every direction; he felt the small movements of all the people and all the creatures in it. He felt each one of them with the great warmth inside him. He cared for all of them.

It occurred to him that he was not completely human any more, that Snape had given him something more than that.

Snape's eyes were wide. And he could feel that Snape was one of the things he cared for --Snape was his responsibility. Snape was brilliant, but Snape was afraid.

With respect and kindness, he met Snape’s eyes and held them. He felt the warmth all around him, he got the feeling of it; he let Snape look into his eyes and see what it was. Then he pulled inward, tracing it back into his body, taking Snape with him, deep into the heart of him, until he arrived at the emotion that was the source of everything. He was nothing but his pulse here, nothing but this feeling. This was what made him breathe. This was what made his heart beat. It was overwhelming, but pure; it was nothing but sweetness. He marvelled at it. Didn't Snape know where it had come from? How could Snape not know? 

Had he done it by accident?

  
Snape’s hand on his shoulder loosened.  
  
And Harry smiled. He held out his hand.  
  
Snape looked at it. Slowly, he let go of Harry's shoulder, put two fingers into it, hesitating, Harry taking his wrist and lifting it with both hands to rest against his chest, the two fingers slipping between the buttons of his shirt. He held Snape’s hand against him.

And he said, “This came from you.” He felt the fingers on his skin, over his heart, touching the place where they had been inside him. “When you made me;” he felt his heart, the great tenderness in it; “You put your own feelings into me.”

Snape’s face colored again. His eyes were dark and beautiful.

And this time, Harry recognized the emotion. He saw why Snape was helpless against him. He saw that Snape would give him anything he asked. There was no room in it for ego, or even thought. It was devotion, pure and simple.  
  
And he felt generosity welling up inside him, irresistible compassion toward Snape, who was so vulnerable toward him. Snape's fingers were still touching the place where they had been inside him; he still held them against his chest, but now his hands loosened, turning, gentle as he cradled Snape's hand, wanting only to keep him safe.  
  
Snape’ voice was hoarse. “You’re a child.”  
  
“No,” he said quietly.  
  
And Snape’s face was not blank any more; it was full of desperation and wonder. For the first time, he saw all of Snape’s emotions, and he saw what he truly was.  
  
“I’m an ideal,” he whispered. “I’m what you fought for.”  
  
All around them, the candles burned steadily. In the flickering light, Snape’s eyes began to glitter. He shut them.  
  
Harry reached out to touch, to make his eyes open again. But then he saw the tear. He touched it, swept it up with his finger, and Snape’s eyes flew open again in surprise, his lips opening.  
  
He put his finger against Snape’s mouth.  
  
Snape sat back on his heels suddenly.  
  
And he stepped forward, bending, because Severus was lower than him now, leaning close enough to feel breath tickle his cheek, tilting his head. The lips under his mouth were unmoving, but so soft. Who would have known they could feel that way?  
  
He could feel his own love, and it was bottomless. This was the essence of the spell, the thing that held him and the thing that made him alive. He looked at Severus and it was like falling down a well, Severus’ emotion finding its echo inside him, magnifying itself until he was dizzy. He looked and he was falling; he swayed.  
  
Severus caught him. He gasped, still looking. This was what made Snape so dangerous, this unlimited capacity for love. It was the root of everything he did, the source of his power; it was inescapable.  
  
Severus made a sound, and his arms came up around him hard, pinning him, but holding him steady, so that he could lean against Severus and touch his face and kiss him slowly, tender, possessive; hearing his breath hitch, feeling him sigh, putting his thumb at the corner of Severus’ mouth and feeling his his lips begin to open; feeling the power that Severus had given him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snape finds a way to stash Harry's soul outside his body, and he does it without killing anyone - but he gets lost in a fantasy. Harry saves him by being real.
> 
> I love a fic where Harry turns everything around without really trying. But really, the opportunity was there all along - he just had to look at it a different way :) This fic is like a visual novel, with [two different endings](https://pornish-pixies.livejournal.com/2005/12/10/), depending on Harry's attitude.
> 
> For churchofsnarry, and dead_potter_society. Big Thanks for concrit to sucial_fly, skree_ratling, pauraque, captainjames, quite_ah_safe, kestrel and amelia_eve. Eternal devotion to sinick, snapetoy and autumn_fawn for beta. And thank you to the lovely people who have left kudos! You make me happy like a box of chocolates. And I'm so glad you liked it <3


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